


Wrong Is Right

by Susanwiththescythe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Beating, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Fix-It of Sorts, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt No Comfort... yet, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Punishment, Religious Guilt, Restraints, Sam has mental health issues, Sastiel - Freeform, Self-Loathing, Shame shame shame, THRASHING, doing it wrong, so much self-loathing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 04:54:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11913627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Susanwiththescythe/pseuds/Susanwiththescythe
Summary: After playing host to Lucifer, Cas wants to make it up to Sam. He only makes it worse.





	Wrong Is Right

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place at an unspecified, canon-compliant time earlyish in Season 12. Tagged as dub con because although Sam consents, he doesn't really understand what he's consenting to until it's too late. Please mind the tags.

“Sam, you know I deserve this.”

Cas is strapped, naked, to a spanking bench in the bunker’s dungeon. Trust the Men of Letters to have some kinky shit hidden away down here. Sam’s still not entirely sure how they arrived at this point. Oh he’s aware, practically speaking, of how these final stages occurred, once they’d both descended the stairs at the previously agreed time. He’d watched the angel take his clothes off, fold them carefully, before calmly spreading himself out over the padded leather of the bench; watched his own hands strap Cas down, methodical, assured. Felt the nervous sweat on the back of Cas’s neck as he’d ruffled his hair in an attempt to re-assure his friend. His _friend._ But he’s struggling to remember why he ever agreed to this in the first place. But, they’ve come this far, and now is the time. He can’t back out.

But still, he’s paused. Poised. Riding crop in hand. He knows the angel deserves something. He’s just not sure it’s this.

“It’s just, Cas, you already apologised.”

“Yes. And now I must atone.”

“But…” _Why me?_ The words are unspoken this time, but they’ve had this argument before.

“You are angry with me. And rightly so. It is only fair that you have your vengeance.”

He is angry, that he can’t deny. But for all that, Cas is still his friend. He should be able to forgive him, given time. And heaven knows, Sam is painfully aware that him in a temper is not a thing the world is ever going to need more of. “I thought God said, ‘Vengeance is mine’. We shouldn’t… _I_ shouldn’t be doing this.”

That earns him a chuckle. “You have met him. After everything you have been through, do you really think he would deny you this?”

Sam is silent. It’s not that he hasn’t suffered. But when you free the Devil from Hell and start the Apocalypse, even when you put him back in the box, Sam’s not sure any amount of suffering is enough to tip the scales of atonement in your favour. And when you let your brother down in all the myriad ways Sam knows he has…

He can’t finish the thought this time, let alone give voice to it. But the captive angel in front of him has heard all those arguments before.

“You heard Him. How many times has He brought me back to you? To both of you? It’s clear what He wants. I am here to serve the Winchesters. In whatever form that service takes.”

The words send a shiver down Sam’s spine, as he briefly lets himself consider the possibilities. He’s always known Cas is beautiful. When his faith had been pure, naïve, he’d spent long torturous nights imagining himself on his knees for Cas, in silent devotion. Nothing more. Even that had felt like a perversion. The merest hint that God brought Cas back as a plaything… What Cas is offering flips all those old dreams upside down, and from the twitch in his pants, his body is obviously interested. Whatever counterarguments his mind is currently trying and failing to assemble.

“Sam, please.” The words snap him out of his reverie. The angel sounds slightly pained, almost desperate. Sam knows how that goes. “Begin.”

He raises the crop in hand, brings it down. The small sound of the leather tip striking skin startles Sam like a gunshot in the quiet of the basement. Cas lets out a little gasp that flips a switch in Sam’s brain, sending a current of lust straight to his dick. This is not what this is supposed to be about. He takes a deep breath. Tries to will away the interest his cock is showing in the proceedings. Fails spectacularly.

“You were just doing what you thought was necessary. To beat the Darkness.” Come on Sam, focus.

“That is true. But I betrayed my friend.” He hits Cas again. It feels… odd. That’s not the right word, but right now he doesn’t want to examine what the right word is too closely.

“I let you down.”

“No Cas, you could never...”

“But I did.”

Sam doesn’t have an answer anymore. They’ve been down this path time and again. He’s not sure why he eventually agreed that physical chastisement would fix things between them, but Castiel had talked him round eventually. _At least try it,_ he’d said. Things have been off between them ever since Cas made it back to the bunker. With the world-ending threat removed, and back home, away from crazy Brits, Sam had time to realise just how much dealing with Lucifer in the body of his only true friend, aside from Dean, had fucked him up.

He hadn’t said anything, had tried to work through it in his own way, but Cas had somehow picked up on it. Sam supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. He is an angel after all. An angel now bound naked and helpless before him, begging for punishment, begging to be allowed to atone. Soaking up the swats Sam is administering with low moans and sighs that, despite what he expected, are beautiful music to Sam’s ears. And he’s trying so hard not to let that get to him, but he can’t. He’s failing.

“Use your belt. Please.”

“What?” The request jerks him back into his head.

“The crop is not enough. I’m used to it now.”

It’s true. As fast as Sam can make the marks, the angel’s natural healing abilities chase them away. The skin on his ass, on the backs of his thighs, is pink, warm to the touch. But there’s no lasting damage. Thank God.

“Sam.” Cas’s voice is low. Pleading. “I know what he did to you.” The whole time they’ve talked about doing this, ever since Cas first brought it up, neither of them has mentioned Lucifer by name.

“You already knew.” His own voice is shaking, as the awareness of what’s inevitably creeping up on him seeps through. “You took away my pain, made the memories… bearable.”

“But I exposed you to those memories in the first place. I deserved to take on that pain, to take on the knowledge of what it felt like for you to live through what he did. But now? I know what it felt like to be the one to do those things to you. How much he enjoyed it. Now, I deserve this.”

Sam thinks he might have stopped breathing. This is new information. He knew Cas wanted to atone for bringing back Lucifer, but that was it.

“That’s why you need to do this. I brought back the one who abused you. I helped him do it again. And while it was happening… it felt…” Castiel’s voice cracks and he stops speaking. There’s shame there.

Sam can hear his own blood thrumming in his ears. His vision shrinks to a pinpoint as he stares at the marks on Cas’s ass, already starting to fade, in a way his own scars never will. When he speaks, it’s with a voice he hasn’t used in a long time, not since he got his soul back. A part of him is shouting that this is wrong, that he needs to stop, but the rest of him tells it to shut the hell up. He feels steadier now. In control.

“Tell me Cas. How did it feel?”

Cas hasn’t answered yet. Sam takes off his belt, fully in the moment, savouring the feel of the leather in his fingers. Folds it into a loop, gripping both ends tightly, dragging the curve of it up the angel’s spine, walking towards the end of the bench and Cas’s head as he does so.

He bends down, now relishing the growing tightness in his pants as his cock fills. “Tell me Cas,” he almost whispers.

Straightening up, he starts to beat the angel methodically, alternating in careful stripes between his buttocks and thighs, repeating the question after every stroke, stalking round the bench as he works.

“How was it?”

Cas is snatching short, almost panicky, breaths between hits, his voice a mix of pleading desperation and shame. “It felt… it felt…”

“Yes?”

It’s like a game now. Sam can lose himself in the rhythm. There’s nothing here except him and Cas, his belt and the bench. _Thwack_. “Tell me.” _Thwack._ “What was it like?” He feels the blood pounding in his heart in time with his strokes, a sympathetic second pulse in his stiffening prick.

It’s not until the angel’s ass and thighs are a deep, mottled purple that Cas finally gives in and gives him an answer.

“How did it feel?”

“It was glorious.” Cas lets the words out in a rush, as if confessing quickly will somehow lessen the sin. He closes his eyes. “Your soul is so warm. So bright. We were not worthy. We never could be. But you had invited him in. It was like coming home.”

What Cas is saying can’t be true. Sam can’t hear it. Won’t hear it. He takes a deep breath. Then lets it go.

He thrashes the angel until his arm aches, then thrashes him some more, in all the places he knows you’re really not supposed to, lower back, ribs, shoulders, over the bones, all method to this madness long gone. The leather breaks the skin, leaves welts. He lets go of one end, wields it like a whip, letting the end curl and flick into Cas’s flesh, then he switches ends, wallops the buckle against the back of Cas’s ribcage, hears the metal fixtures jangling like a harness, sees the bruises bloom as the bones fracture beneath the skin, but it’s not enough, it’ll never be enough. Sam will never truly be able to deserve what Cas is giving him, here and now, and taking it will never make up for what happened to him or what Cas has done. But for these few moments, feeling the weight of the belt in his clenched fist, experiencing the thud of each impact as it travels up the belt and into his arm, staring in wonder and rage at the transient signs of the damage he’s doing, he can push all that to one side and let his wordless anger pour out of him and into the willing vessel in front of him.

When the angel’s back is a beautiful mess, bloody and bruised, Sam pauses, breathing heavily with exertion, sweat and a few tears of guilt pouring down his cheeks. Over Castiel’s pained moans, he can make out a gentle splattering sound. Freezes stock still, as he realises it’s the angel’s release spilling out onto the floor.

His anger completely overtakes him then, and this was what he was always afraid of, this was why he’d told Cas this plan was a terrible one, that once he’d started, he might not stop. Let that beast out of its cage and there was no telling how far he’d go. Cas had said this was all for Sam, that sex didn’t even have to come into it, no matter what either of them has accidentally encountered when using the laptop after Dean’s been on it, yet here he is, coming like a little slut, thrashed into helpless oblivion by Sam’s belt. Cas is coming, but Sam is still so. fucking. hard.

Disgusted with the angel, even more with himself, and with the whole thing, dick aching in his pants, desperate for release, Sam throws the belt to the floor, unbuttons his fly and all but tears the zipper down on his jeans.

Once his cock is free, he thrusts into his fist, brutal, efficient strokes that have him coming in seconds, covering Cas’s back with come. It’s like some gruesomely beautiful artwork that changes before Sam’s eyes. A Jackson Pollock canvas made up of bloody, criss-crossed gashes, interlaced with the translucent stripes of his spend, on a background of purple and pink bruising, slowly resolving itself into something new and whole as the wounds gradually disappear and the blood ebbs away beneath the surface.

Watching the skin knitting itself back together, Sam feels bile rise at the back of this throat at the thought that some of his come will be sealed inside Cas as his back heals, even as his dick spasms again at the idea that this is how completely the angel now belongs to him. The choked-off cry that escapes his mouth is want and need, misery and absolution, and Sam wishes he knew what was happening to him right now.

Head spinning from his orgasm, feeling simultaneously sick and dazed and drunk with power from ruining a fucking _angel_ for God’s sake, no matter how deserved or otherwise it was, Sam crashes to the floor, ends up kneeling close to the bench, forehead resting against Castiel’s side.

“I’m sorry.” It’s barely a whisper.

“You have nothing to apologise for. You needed this. You _need_ this.” Cas is hoarse, voice even lower than usual, but still urgent, trying to re-assure him. “We can do it again. Whenever you need to.” No, no they can’t.

Almost sobbing, Sam strips off his T-shirt, uses a sleeve to wipe himself down, before getting shakily back to his feet and using the rest to clean the come and remaining spots of blood from Cas’s back. He unbuckles the straps holding the angel in place, again so detached from what he’s doing he’s barely there. Bottle of water. He’d brought a bottle of water with him for Cas for after. Something he’d read on doing this safely said it was a necessary part of the process.

It’s all he can do to retrieve his plaid overshirt, do up the buttons, and set the water down beside Cas’s own neat little pile of clothes before stumbling up out of the dungeon, heading for the outer doors, for outside, for fresh air and light. So much light. He’ll stare at the sun until he’s blind if it’ll burn away the image seared across his eyeballs of what he’s just done.

“Sam.” He hears Cas say his name just as he’s leaving. It sounds a little like love, a bit like acceptance, and a promise of all those things he will never deserve, shouldn’t want and can’t have.

He’s not going to take Cas up on the offer.

He’s not.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from a track by my favourite band Alabama 3, if curious, you can listen to it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4OwromEM9ZU). The song has no bearing on the fic besides the title.
> 
> I wrote this in one afternoon in a sudden burst of inspiration. I'd been writing part of a chapter of a much longer work that I've been at for months now and had the sudden urge to produce something quick and dirty. It inevitably turned into something with waaay more feels than I originally intended when the initial images first landed in my brain. And ended up being more more of a processing fic than anything else. On one level, it fulfils my wish that canon would allow Sam more space to process some of the more recent shit that has happened to him, though if that does ever occur, hopefully he'll find a better method than the one he attempts in this.
> 
> That said, he and Cas could be onto something here. And I _never_ thought I'd say that, as Sastiel often feels to me like the ship with the least possible canon to back it up (that's not to say people shouldn't ship it, just that on a personal level, I've never seen the basis for it). But if I were them, I wouldn't start from here.
> 
> If you got this far, thanks for reading! Comments and concrit always welcomed.


End file.
